


The Daily Grind

by Sk3tch



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Barista!John, Coffee Shops, M/M, On Hiatus, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-01
Updated: 2014-09-01
Packaged: 2018-02-15 16:18:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2235444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sk3tch/pseuds/Sk3tch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A coffee shop AU with Johnlock. I'm still fleshing out the story, but the first chapter is them meeting for the first time. Enjoy and please be patient as I'm still writing. I.E. updates may be irregular.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Daily Grind

**Author's Note:**

> I just needed to post this because I've been sitting on it for months and maybe by posting it I'll get back to writing on it! Anyway, I haven't a beta to torture so please be kind. Also, it's my first fic for the fandom! Yay! Please enjoy and let me know if you like it. :)

                 Walking into the noisy coffee shop Sherlock Holmes scowled. While he enjoyed the occasional cup of black coffee, if only to get a better kick of caffeine, he had a general disdain for those who frequented the shops. The patrons were usually young, arrogant, idiotic, and rude. Although, Sherlock’s lip turned up at the corner as he thought, that could describe most everyone besides himself and a handful of people. Well, technically he was still young and if the right person was asked, like his brother, they would say he was arrogant and rude, but that was beside the point. Coffee might be good, but coffee shops Sherlock tried to avoid as it usually had other people his age, and that meant no one to hold an actual conversation with. Entering _The Daily Grind_ he grimaced at the supposed pun and glancing around, he saw an acquaintance talking to a barista in a corner booth by the window.

                 Mike Stamford was not exactly his friend, they went to the same school sure, and he never tried to bully Sherlock like others had, but they were not close. Having finished High school early, or rather they asked him nicely to move on, university was as mundane as Sherlock thought it was going to be, so when he met Mike and was then introduced to other students from the latter’s interning class, he became interested. While wanting to work with the police, he decidedly did not want to try and intern alongside Anderson, so spending his own time whether he should have been in class or not, he had involved himself. Mike had questioned his actions, but Sherlock mused, seemed to be too invested in seeing him make friends, to try and dissuade him.

                 Five years later, having graduated from uni in the first three, Sherlock still didn’t have friends. He had Molly, the half-witted albeit enthusiastic girl hired from her internship at the hospital morgue now working on her actual doctorate, and Mike to an extent; but Sherlock was just as solitary as when he started his term at the school. It wasn’t that he felt sadness about this, but push come to shove, it would be nice to be able to have someone drop everything and come when he needed them. Not even a romantic someone, just someone, preferably not as dull as most. So while he himself did not have friends, he was aware of those around him and who they considered more than strangers.

 So seeing them sitting there Sherlock found it odd. Not that Mike Stamford was at a shop, he knew from the accumulation of powdered sugar usually left on his tie and mostly swept from his collar that he frequented a coffee shop which sold both the wretched donuts and weak overpriced coffee Mike always had on his breath. Seeing how he only had an average of ten spare minutes in the morning due to his commute and a sad need to repeatedly hit the snooze button, added in his obvious delight in sweets, Sherlock had pegged Mike’s shop of choice to be within a two minute walking distance from the hospital and consequently school. Discarding the hospital’s own small café had left three in the immediate area. One having been busted three times the previous month due to illegal substances being baked into the goods, left two.

                 But coffee shop preference aside, it was odd to see him talking with another male clad in the obligatory green barista apron of the workers. While he knew that Mike was social, he did not deviate much from those in his immediate area. Since Sherlock had never met this guy, he wondered why Mike was talking to him and now pointing at Sherlock out right. The shorter man turned around and Sherlock saw several things at once. Turning his own attention to Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade, Sherlock promptly forgot the guy with the sandy colored hair as he took in the apparent crime scene.

                “Inside job,” he said to no one in particular, although he was leveling a strong glare at Anderson.

               “Ah, Sherlock,” Greg sighed out with exasperation trying to masquerade as something resembling uneasy gratitude, “thank you for your input, but we have our own investigation already underway. Besides, don’t you have classes or something?” Almost letting out a snort, Sherlock settled for a raised eyebrow.

                “Yes,” he ignored the second part because the older man always played the age card, “and I can see Anderson is doing a wonderful job tasting all the evidence.” He closed his eyes and felt the DI turn, imagining him stiffening when his eyes would rest on the idiot of a new detective sniffing and pointedly licking a small stripe down some sort of turnover.

                “Dammit Philip, didn’t you have breakfast?” This time Sherlock did smile as he opened his eyes to a red-faced beginner with evidence stuck to his nose.

                “But,” he started with the same tone of detached seriousness he always used when talking to the DI, “I was telling the truth, as I usually do. It was an inside job.” Obviously overworked, Lestrade sighed and pinched the bridge between his eyes before he spoke.

                “Okay, I’ll bite Sherlock, who did it?”

                “Too easy Lestrade, it was the cashier.” Bored, Sherlock moved his gaze to the menu chalked above them seeing if any of the coffee or tea might be good. The DI dumbfounded, blinked at him as if staring at Sherlock would make the solution suddenly materialize itself.  Sherlock was about to point out the obvious signs including a few receipts, some jumpy actions from another worker in the back, the scuff marks on the tiles, and a nametag visible under the cash register when a voice spoke from behind him.

                “Excuse me, but you’re wrong there mate.” It was calm and collected but there was also a sense of calculated nerves. Turning, Sherlock looked down to see the same barista Mike had been sitting with. The man with sandy colored hair and bags under his eyes couldn’t have been much older than Sherlock’s 23 years, perhaps being 30 at the most.

                “Medical or Law? And you’re wrong by the way, the cashier did it.” Up to this point Sherlock had kept eye contact with the shorter stranger, but at his words the latter looked down, put his hands on his hips and puffed out his chest in a huff, measuring his response. Interesting Sherlock thought, interesting.

                “I, excuse me,” the shorter man looked back up and now crossed his arms in front of the apron, “what do you mean? And no, I stand by my previous statement.” Hmmm, Sherlock thought while appraising him, a barista with a backbone. 

                “Medical or Law? It’s a simple question as to what your degree will be in, I could actually deduce it in the next two minutes without even having to talk with you if you’d like, but I’ve been told that’s rude and not to be done in front of the average masses. And no, it was the cashier.” Sherlock was gaining interest in this fellow whose mouth was opening and closing in a fascinated confusion, and had it not been for Lestrade’s interruption he would have gone on.

                “Sherlock, if you are going to show up unannounced at a crime scene please save your flirting for after the actual cops close the case. Please explain why it was the, uh,” he glanced over at John, “cashier.” Sherlock turned his head away from the blushing barista and leveled a glare at Lestrade.

                “You… normal people, how nice it must be to be so ignorant. The cashier did it and if you don’t believe me, just check his sock, the cash is still there undoubtedly as he didn’t have time to stash it under the sink with the rest of it,” perhaps adding too much sarcasm Sherlock continued, “will the evidence be enough to wrap this up or do I have to do more of your work?” After a quick beat, Lestrade glanced toward Anderson and cleared his throat looking back toward Sherlock.

                “If you could lift your trouser leg then,” he gestured with a hand and Sherlock frowned. Was Lestrade being especially thick today or, oh, _oh_! Sherlock rolled his eyes and took to rubbing the temples before he spoke.

                “Honestly! Please don’t be twits. He didn’t do it,” Sherlock threw an arm in the direction of the barista and sighed swinging it around again, “that one!” At the same time his arm came up to point at a shifty looking male near the back of the shop, close to the kitchen, the man took off through the back door.

                “Oi! Stop there,” Lestrade managed to bark out before taking off after him, “Anderson, come on!” Scruffing him none to gently, Lestrade grabbed the junior by his shirt collar and hauled him after him. There was really no need to run, Sherlock thought, unless the man could jump an eight foot wall, there would be nowhere for him to go other than the end of the alley. With his mouth turned up at the corners, he rotated with a swish of his overcoat and came once again face to face with the interesting barista. Ah yes, he thought, him.

                “See,” he coolly uttered, “it was the cashier. Obviously not you, seeing as you were on break and all, and don’t have any signs of withdrawal.” Looking him up and down, Sherlock saw the man try to stutter something out before just closing his mouth.

                “Okay. You were right.” While the defeated admission usually brought a self-serving pat on the back for Sherlock, this one didn’t resonate with him. Seemingly rendering the tall man silent, the barista moved out of his way.

                “Yes well, usually am.” Sherlock mumbled and tried to read the blue eyes that met his own. After a minute more, he blinked and severed the connection.

                “Well, good day John.” Sherlock said and took long strides out of the shop and towards the hospital. He might have been just wishing to hear it, but he could have sworn he heard a small ‘yeah, you too’ muttered to his receding figure in confusion. Sherlock wondered if the barista was contemplating how he knew his name or if he was still taken by the scene that had unfolded judging by the look that had still been on his face. With everything he had been observing about this man without access to any personal items, he found him to be increasingly interesting. With a little more digging he would soon know more about this John character.


End file.
